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“He told me to go fuck myself, is what he said.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t strike him,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

“During the entire conversation, el Ferruch’s bodyguard stood behind my son’s chair. He was an enormous Negro with a pistol in his belt. Frankly, I was afraid. Not so much physically, you understand, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, but because of the political and diplomatic ramifications of a confrontation with him. Because of his diplomatic status.”

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz managed to restrain a smile. His mind’s eye saw the Baron nervously eyeing N’Jibba, el Ferruch’s enormous, shining black Senegalese bodyguard. What had kept the Baron from doing something foolish was not his awareness of political and diplomatic ramifications, but a menacing robed character two meters tall and weighing 150 kilos.

“I gather the discussion concluded soon?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked. “And that was the end of it?”

"It wasn’t the end of it, but yes, I left,” the Baron said. “As soon as I could, I discussed the situation with my legal counsel. He confirmed my belief that I had the legal right under German law to bring my son to heel. But he also pointed out that the matter wasn’t quite that simple. He therefore made a few discreet inquiries of highly placed persons within the Foreign Ministry and the Party.”

“And?”

“The matter came to the attention of the Foreign Minister himself, who thought it would be ‘ill-advised at the present time’ to either exercise my parental rights or to seek to have my son declared a German. Under American law, since he was born there, he is an American. The America

ns were liable to become highly indignant if a German court were to declare otherwise. ”

“And I would think,” von Heurten-Mitnitz added, “that others had in mind the possible usefulness of el Ferruch should war come and we find ourselves in possession of French Morocco.”

“I thought it might be something like that,” the Baron said.

“I was the German representative to the Franco-German Armistice Commission for Morocco,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “In that capacity, I came to know your son, Herr Baron.”

“Did you?” the Baron asked, surprised.

“Before we get into that, let me ask, how often did you see your son after your first encounter? Or should I say ‘confrontation’?”

“I never saw him again,” the Baron said firmly.

“And you had no idea that the last time he left Germany, he had no intention of returning? There was no telephone, not even a postcard?”

“I never had any contact with him after that meeting.”

“But you did pay his tuition at Marburg?”

“It was suggested to me that I do so,” the Baron said.

“And gave him an allowance of— How much was it?”

“Five thousand Reichsmarks monthly,” the Baron said. “But that, too, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, was at the recommendation of highly placed persons. ”

“So I understand,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

He fixed the Baron with a stern look.

“Herr Baron, it goes without saying that what I will now tell you is a state secret. You are to tell no one.”

“I understand,” the Baron said.

“There is reason to believe that your son is now connected with American military intelligence.”

The Baron’s face went white. “I can’t tell you how ashamed that makes me.”

Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz let him sweat a moment.

“The information we have is considered highly reliable,” he said.

"Certainly, no one thinks—” the Baron began, and stopped.